


The Anniversary

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft IS the British Government, POV Mycroft Holmes, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Being Annoying, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, Suit Porn, dressing gown porn, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evening is already proving to be an unremitting success.</p>
<p>And they haven’t even properly begun yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PhoenixDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/gifts).



> Written for the lovely PhoenixDragon because she is a lovely, wonderful person and because she reads all my Holmescest.
> 
> Betaed by the amazing startdust_made who was, is an will always remain one of the best writers the Sherlock fandom ever had.

Upon waking there’s always that flickering instant of anxiety during which the conscious mind takes over the relay baton from the subliminal. Most people aren’t even aware of the short passages between obliviousness and consciousness their self crosses day after day, but Mycroft Holmes is not most people.

Each morning he enters sentience’s dark tunnel to experience a profound relief when he rediscovers the luminescence that tells him body and mind have merged once again. This particular morning is no different. The muted light slanting through the silk blinds covering his bedroom windows bathes the screens of his eyelids, suffusing Mycroft’s world with a soft orange glow. Rather than opening his eyes, Mycroft decides to screw them tightly shut and linger a bit longer in the primordial beauty created thanks to the light hitting his retinas through a veil. 

_Seven million cones_ his mind informs him, and Mycroft can barely refrain from emitting a tiny noise of exasperation at having this redundant piece of knowledge popping up.  
Swiftly, he orders his mind to relegate the uncalled-for trifle to the small room where information that might come in handy one day is (re)catalogued before being transferred to the cellar labelled ‘physics facts, various’. He truly appreciates the mind nature has gifted him with – its constant curiosity, its versatility, its quickness and audacity – and recognises his profit from this advantage when dealing with people less generously endowed, but this tendency to have him bombarded with random trivia when he isn’t focussed on a specific task can be annoying.

Right now Mycroft doesn’t want to concern himself with the no doubt fascinating world of the human eye. What he _does_ want to do is bask in the warmth of the sun soaking the room and adding to the comfort of the bedclothes snuggled against his skin, but mostly in the heat seeping from the body half draped over his. He pulls Sherlock in a little closer and sinks his nose into the thick nest of curls resting in the crook of his shoulder. Fierce joy wells up in Mycroft’s chest, threatening to flood the whole of his body, that of his brother, the bed, the room.

_So this is what people mean when they say they’re happy_ , Mycroft thinks and slits open one eye to the glimpse of pale nose tip standing out against the wisps of auburn hair covering Mycroft’s chest. Sherlock sniffles in his sleep and tightens his grasp on Mycroft’s waist.

For a split-second Mycroft is afraid dying from happiness might not be merely a fancy turn of phrase but a legitimate cause of death.

***

In his agenda the date is permanently unavailable. His PA is a woman of great acuity – that’s why he stole her out of MI6’s typing pool – so she knows better than planning an appointment after five on that particular day of the year. 

Two years ago Mycroft’s attachment to the date resulted into a week’s postponement of the World Economic Forum. The Swiss were thoroughly irritated, demanding an explanation for what they chose to view as an act of perverse inflexibility. The matter threatened to evolve into a minor diplomatic incident. Thankfully, Mycroft’s firm stance made the Swiss see reason in the end. The weather gods came to his aid as well. Everyone agreed it was far more pleasant to discuss the state of the economy over lunch on a sunny terrace than locked inside a room with the rain lashing at the windows, which they would have been doing if, by a stroke of sheer luck, the conference hadn’t been postponed. 

In general Mycroft begins mulling over the choice of the right venue about a month before the date, sorting through the assortment of eateries he attended the past year in either a workwise or social capacity. What he seeks is dispassionate elegance, an atmosphere of _laissez faire_ combined with a sense of blurred intimacy. Nothing too romantic, certainly. They’ll be posing as vague acquaintances, City associates, cousins, anything but the lovers they are. 

The food, on the other hand, must be nothing but top-notch. For all his feigned indifference, his scurvy hints below the belt and the cartons of leftover takeaway stashed haphazardly amidst leaking bags of thumbs and other – mercifully inconceivable – horrors in the 221B Baker Street fridge, Sherlock is almost as much of a _gourmet_ as Mycroft. Yielding to epicurean joys may not fit into the image of the ascetic man of science he prefers to present to the Commonwealth but that doesn’t keep Mycroft’s younger brother from indulging in the base activity when given the chance. 

Thus, during these outings Mycroft derives great pleasure from watching Sherlock lift a morsel of poached tenderloin all the way past the pale stroke that is his throat, and leave it lingering in front of his mouth, teasingly, less than half an inch from his half-parted lips. His nostrils visibly flare to draw in the aroma, inviting the titbit to finish the seduction of his olfactory nerves it had begun earlier, when it still formed part of the carefully crafted _tableau_ on his plate. Usually, a tiny satisfied hum of appreciation escapes him at this point. Then he opens his mouth more, inserts the forkful of food and eases it of the tinsels onto his tongue, which, eyelids fluttering closed, he goes on to press against his palate, savouring and doing a proper cataloguing of the surge on his taste buds.

“Perfect.” And he’ll blink open his eyes, as if surfacing from depths of sensation previously unknown to man, then smile slowly, just the right-hand corner of his lips curving upwards so Mycroft forgets all about the dish directly in front of him, effectively rendering useless the time spent deliberating upon its selection.

Once Mycroft has selected the restaurant he’ll reserve a table and ring to notify Sherlock. 

“Fine,” will be his sibling’s curt reply. Occasionally a tinkle of glassware accompanies his voice, informing Mycroft he’s caught his brother in the middle of an experiment. At other times a vague rumbling in the background interrupted by an ambulance’s hysterical wail makes Mycroft ring off straightaway to leave Sherlock to his crime scene and the harassment of innocent NSY employees rueing the day they signed up for a career at the Met.

Their engagement ascertained, Mycroft occupies himself with the good of the general public once more, in one of its many forms. Whether this involves initiating a minor conflict in a Transcaucasian state no one has ever heard of or smoothing a piece of unpopular legislature through Parliament is all one to him. Someone has to serve the Crown and its subjects, and Mycroft Holmes is the man best suited for the job. Long ago he elected not to worry over the less palatable aspects the function brings along. Such are the responsibilities accompanying real power and he’ll have to live with those.

***

For their tenth anniversary Mycroft organised a weekend in Paris, which wasn’t much of a success from start to finish. Sherlock scoffed at the choice, declaring he loathed the sentiments of romance and passion associated with the city and its inhabitants. He complained the hotel was too ostentatious, apart from being downright dreary, and pouted in the Luxembourg Gardens, along the Seine banks and amidst the fabulous architecture of the Place des Vosges. In his determination to be as obnoxious as possible he’d even sat sulking in the restaurants Mycroft had booked for them, picking listlessly at the fare and denying them both the delectation Mycroft had been so looking forward to when planning the trip.

In retaliation Mycroft pretended to be unavailable after their return. At first all was quiet on the Sherlock front. After two weeks Mycroft received a text, demanding his attention. He deleted it and resettled his gaze on the Home Secretary seated in the visitor’s chair on the other side of his desk, quirking his right eyebrow to apologise for the momentary distraction. 

Over the span of the next few days the number of texts was increasing by the hour, their frequency outrun only by the steadily mounting tone of belligerence. After a while tinges of hurt began to creep in, and a week later the flow of messages ceased abruptly, signalling to Mycroft that his sibling had gone on to the next phase, which consisted of a sulk of truly epic proportions. He paid a visit to Sherlock’s landlord and drew his wallet to liberally grease the man’s palm, intending to promise him all damage his precious Montague Street attic cubicle might incur over the course of the next few days would be mended promptly and without fail. The landlord turned out to be a fool, who surmised he could give Mycroft a run for his money, so he ended up with a hefty penalty for tax evasion while fervently assuring Mycroft that Sherlock was welcome to spray paint the walls, pry up the floorboards, and pervade the house with toxic fumes to his heart’s content.

Convinced he’d done all he could to preserve Sherlock’s sanity, Mycroft went back to busying himself with matters equally predictable and yet far less engrossing than his younger brother’s mood swings. 

Ninety-two hours after the last message had been sent the front door of Sherlock’s house opened and Sherlock stepped out into the street. He glowered straight into the CCTV camera attached to the opposite building and marched off into the direction of the nearest Tesco. Mycroft tracked his wander down the aisles, watching Sherlock stock up on bread, jam, milk, tea (PG tips – Mycroft wrinkled his nose) vitamin pills and cans of baked beans. At least he wasn’t bent on actively starving himself to death. Mycroft stalked him virtually all the way home and waited until the front door had fallen safely shut behind Sherlock before closing the tab and devoting himself to the Chinese and their annoying habit to prowl Taiwanese territorial waters without an invite.

When Sherlock emerged some twelve hours later with a deliberate glint in his eye Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief and mentally apologised to DI Lestrade and his colleagues. His eyes flicked over the rather gruesome crime scene to which Sherlock had no doubt been summoned and he turned away from the screen. For now he was happy to leave his sibling to his nasty pursuits, which, by some ironic twist of fate, were almost equally advantageous to the general public as Mycroft’s endeavours, and decidedly more advantageous to Sherlock’s health than those he’d sought when first making the DI’s acquaintance.

The stalemate lasted several weeks. Then Sherlock recommenced the text bombardment, their tenor following a wide trajectory from frantic hate to black despair. It took every ounce of Mycroft’s considerable self-control not to cave in and leap out of his trench, pen poised at the ready to sign the truce. 

_Let him dangle just a little longer_ , Mycroft thought whilst hurling yet another message nearly but not quite begging him for forgiveness into the digital waste bin. He gleaned no enjoyment from his little brother’s discomfort – his own nerves were shot to pieces – but Sherlock needed to be taught a lesson every now and then. 

After all, the situation wasn’t like those earlier times, the memories of which he’d locked away in the room with the bronze plaque on the door that reads ‘Sherlock, weaknesses’. This had been plain stroppiness, which could be charming when distributed in small quantities, but turned sour upon being dealt in such copious amounts. 

In the end Sherlock turned up at his doorstep in the middle of a downpour, soaked to the bone and with contrition written all over his drooping frame. All too aware of his sibling’s penchant for drama Mycroft was certain Sherlock had kept a weather eye on the forecast, timing his arrival to coincide exactly with the worst of the deluge for maximum effect. 

Wordlessly, he took his brother’s hand and pulled his shivering form into the vestibule.

“There now,” he shushed. “There, there.” Sherlock’s lips were blue from the cold and his fingers felt as fragile as icicles in Mycroft’s grip. His skin was nearly translucent, glistening as if he were a precious piece of Murano glass lifted from the bottom of the sea.

“I’m…” he stammered, “I was going to…” but the wild chattering of his teeth prevented him from disclosing what it was he’d meant to do.

“Sshh,” Mycroft soothed him again. “It’s all right. It’s all fine. Here, let me…” Quickly, he divested Sherlock of his coat and his jacket, dropping the items into the wetness pooling around Sherlock’s feet on the vestibule tiles. He kneeled to help Sherlock ease his feet out of his shoes and his socks, gently chafing the poor extremities between his hands to warm them. The rest of Sherlock’s clothes followed soon after and after wrapping him in his own suit jacket Mycroft helped his little brother up the stairs. The jacket was way too big for Sherlock’s narrow frame and Mycroft suffered a pang of remorse as his brother drifted down the corridor, looking as forlorn as a twelve-year-old waif gone off for a traipse in the woods, only to get horribly lost and end up roaming the forest until the end of his days. 

He ran a bath and sprinkled the water with a ridiculous amount of bath salts. Sherlock’s nose twitched but rather than commenting he sought Mycroft’s hand and clutched it in a mute entreaty for help in settling into the tub.

Mycroft choked back the unpleasant lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “That’s better, isn’t it?” he asked in a hushed voice, carding his fingers through the sodden icy strands coiled on top of Sherlock’s head. 

“Yes,” murmured Sherlock with eyes closed. The hot water sent a flush up his cheeks, relieving them of their unhealthy pallor. 

“You must eat, I’ll make you some tea and a sandwich,” Mycroft decided. He tore himself away and shut the door on the enticing picture of his little brother, floating pliant in Mycroft’s bathtub. 

Downstairs he shook out and hung Sherlock’s clothes in the laundry room and stuffed his Oxfords with newspaper to soak up the moisture and ensure they would retain their shape upon drying. In the kitchen he prepared Sherlock a pot of excellent tea and a stack of anchovy paste sandwiches, which had been Sherlock’s favourite since childhood.

Upstairs again Mycroft put his ear to the bathroom door to listen to the lovely splash of water lazily slopping against the tub’s sides. Apparently the warmth had managed to rouse Sherlock from his near-catatonic state. Mycroft smiled.

He moved to the bedroom where he arranged the tray with the tea and sandwiches on the nightstand, then folded back the bedclothes and drew the blinds and curtains before lighting the lamps on either side of the bed.

Satisfied with the room’s atmosphere, Mycroft entered his walk-in closet to disrobe and select tomorrow’s suit and shirt with their accessories. This usually took up quite a lot of time in a day that always fell short of a few hours. Still, in Mycroft’s estimation every quarter hour devoted to deliberation upon his wardrobe was time spent more profitable than the many minutes he would for instance waste in convincing the more rabid members of the Joint Select Committee that implanting the Crown’s subjects with a remote-controlled self-igniting chip at birth might be an expedient means to countervailing future acts of terrorism, hooliganism or other disturbances of the peace, but, given the current political outlook, would most certainly be declared illegal by the European Court of Human Rights. 

Eventually he settled upon a midnight blue double pinstripe, a broadcloth shirt – its corn white hue an exact match of the suit’s stripes – and rounded off the ensemble with a deliciously perky polka dot tie and pocket kerchief in shimmering imperial purple. In contrast his shoes were of a blue so dark a less acute observer would likely mistake their glossy shine for black. Humming under his breath he brushed an appreciative hand along the tie, the silk as alive and warm beneath his fingertips as the inside of Sherlock’s thighs.

Behind him he heard a door close, indicating Sherlock had left the bath and made his way into the bedroom. Mycroft suppressed a sigh of disappointment. He had rather counted on lifting Sherlock out of the bath and towelling him dry with one of his fluffy bath sheets, expressly designed to pamper and caress endlessly long flowing limbs.

Sherlock had clearly availed himself of one of those sheets, before dropping the dampened cloth carelessly on Mycroft´s antique Qom rug to wrap his body in Mycroft’s best cashmere robe and drape himself over Mycroft´s bed. From this vantage point he threw Mycroft an impish smile. His gaze trailed languidly up and down Mycroft’s body and, fingers fondling his crotch, he let the smile develop into a smirk.

“You should adjust your regimen when I’m not available, Mycroft,” he began in a tone that oozed reasonableness. “Just thank your lucky stars—”

The rest of his sentence was lost in the smack of Mycroft’s palm hitting Sherlock’s cheekbone. Mycroft aimed the slap precisely, ensuring the sharp edge of the ring Sherlock had presented him with when he’d finally conquered his addiction, cut the skin. Sherlock’s hand flew up to cover the graze and he looked up sharply at Mycroft but didn’t resist when Mycroft cupped his chin to whack his other cheek. 

“Shut up,” Mycroft snarled. Two thin red lines had sprung up on the pale high ridges beneath the wide pools of defiance that were Sherlock’s eyes, their surface stirred by faint ripples of apprehension. Mycroft mentally shut his eyes to them. “It’s time you learned when to shut up, brother dear.”

“I—” tried Sherlock, providing Mycroft with the final incentive he needed.

Vigour powered by anger he flipped over Sherlock onto his front, rucked up the dressing robe’s skirt over his torso and past his head and spread his legs none too gently. In his search for the lubricant Mycroft yanked open the drawer of the nightstand so wildly it crashed onto the floor, spilling its meticulously arranged contents in a disarray of blister strips, tubes and fluttering handkerchiefs. Although he noticed the lubricant was two weeks past its expiry date – he’d had precious little use for it lately – he nonetheless squirted a thick stripe onto his fingers and, not bothering to warm the substance first, set to quickly preparing his brother. 

He was careful – he was always careful – but rough and he heard Sherlock suck in a breath that could have been a sob. His fingers faltered a moment before picking up the pace again in time to the quick strokes of his other hand. Soon he was ready to enter Sherlock and he drove home the message of his discontent with one deep thrust that let Sherlock experience the full extent of the fury his headstrong behaviour had provoked in his elder sibling.

Sherlock squirmed beneath him and rutted into the mattress, signifying his delight in this turn of events. Clearly he still hadn’t grasped Mycroft’s objective wasn’t dealing pleasure to his little brother but rather teaching him a lesson by venting his displeasure.

With a growl of annoyance Mycroft seized Sherlock’s hips and, in a feat of athletics he would have deemed beyond him, raised himself on his knees and hitched up Sherlock’s hips at the same time, all the while staying firmly locked inside his brother’s body. Immediately Sherlock snaked down his right hand. Mycroft batted it away.

“No, you don’t,” he gasped, clasping Sherlock’s forearm when he made a second attempt. In front of him Sherlock grew absolutely still. 

“You get it now, don’t you?” Mycroft asked and lodged himself even deeper into the slick tight heat that surrounded his member, focussing on the corporeal sensation and effectively reducing Sherlock to a vessel for Mycroft’s carnal needs. 

For an instant he couldn’t recall how they’d ended up in this position. Normally his hands would have ceaselessly roamed Sherlock’s form, touching him everywhere; his shivering flanks, the dip of his spine, the beautifully moulded pair of scapulae that rose from the long curve of his back like a wicked little pair of fluttering cherub wings. He would have laid himself along that gentle slope to press his lips to Sherlock’s nape, on that hidden precinct beneath the fringe of his curls where the skin was the whitest and softest. Now he found himself holding Sherlock’s hips prisoner in a vicelike grip and the vision of his sibling’s glorious form cut down to a view of yards of dove grey wool flowing away from the firm, round buttocks where he’d sheathed himself.

A noise from the grey heap in front of him pulled Mycroft back to his senses. At first he wasn’t certain he had heard correctly but then the sound was repeated. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock was saying. And then, in a sigh that was close to a moan, “Mycroft—” 

His hips twitched and he nudged his behind tighter against Mycroft’s pelvis in a plea for him to continue. That was all the encouragement Mycroft needed and he fell onto his younger brother, pounding into him with such violence they were both going to feel it the next day. His orgasm hit him with the force of a tidal wave and he let it crash over him, sucking him under until he drowned in the stream of seed that was spilling out of him into the body he felt close to abusing.

Time lost its meaning until he surfaced, gasping for breath, and eased himself out of Sherlock to collapse beside him onto sheets with the sense of relief a shipwreck survivor experiences as his desperately treading feet finally find purchase on a stable surface.

The rustle of delicate textile followed by the slick sound of flesh on flesh induced Mycroft to lift his eyelids to the picture of Sherlock raised on his knees and bringing himself off. For the duration of a few seconds their gazes locked and Mycroft felt himself pulled under again, into the black depths of Sherlock’s pupils. He wrenched his gaze away and down to where Sherlock’s hand was working his erection. His thighs glistened with the mixture of ejaculate and lubricant that was leaking out of him. Mycroft shifted closer to extend his hand and touch him there. Sherlock bit off a gasp and then he was coming, striping Mycroft’s arm. A few drops splattered on Mycroft’s chin.

“Oh god,” Sherlock panted. He choked back a half-laugh. “Mycroft,” he said.

Mycroft surged up and fastened his arms around him. His favourite robe was ruined, reduced to bin fodder, the chances his Qom rug might be salvaged were slight, but compared to the feel of Sherlock’s curls brushing his jaw, those considerations were immaterial.

***

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Mycroft agrees, smiling his pleasantest smile. The abysmal fool on the other side of the desk appears to be glued to his seat. He keeps drumming his right hand fingers on his knee and sending Mycroft imploring looks. The very same minor civil servant he saw fit to put in his proper place a few weeks ago when Mycroft warned the man his rash decision would end in a party political disaster. 

And so it had gone, naturally. Mycroft hasn’t been fully able to suppress a tiny wicked twinge of glee when the Prime Minister washed up with the dismal look of a beaten man in his office an hour ago, but he does have an appointment he deems far more important than any of the Prime Minister’s concerns and now longs to be rid of the oaf.

“You must forgive me,” he murmurs again. “But, as I told you just now, I do have other, rather pressing matters…”

Thankfully, this time the Prime Minister catches the hint Mycroft had been dropping for the past half hour with the subtlety of a major state declaring war on its neighbouring country by firebombing the capital.

“Yes,” he says. “Naturally. We’re all very busy men. But perhaps you could…” He drops off and looks up at Mycroft, as silently imploring as a dog begging its master to forgive it and be pleased with it once more. 

“I’ll talk to them first thing tomorrow,” Mycroft hushes him. “Let them first wallow in their triumph a bit. In my experience that’s the best means to driving the lesson home effectively.”

“You think so?” Fresh hope lights up the Prime Minister’s face. “Well, if you say so…”

“Definitely,” Mycroft cuts him short, making to lift himself out of his chair. “Now, if you’d be so kind…” He trails off and slants his gaze from the Prime Minister in the direction of the door. 

“Yes.” The doomed politician raises his bulk at last. “Yes. And thank you. Thank you.”

Once the Prime Minister is safely out of the door Mycroft rushes into the small room on the right side of his office. It’s a sparsely furnished cubicle containing nothing more than a field bed, a cold-water sink and a few clothes hooks. 

Mycroft strips quickly, hurling the Prime Minister to hell and back again under his breath and deliberately not glancing at his watch for he already knows he’s late. He shaves and throws water onto his body, gasping with the initial shock of the icy cold on his skin, and washes it thoroughly, cursing the Prime Minister some more for having put him in such a frantic hurry. 

Whilst patting his limbs and torso dry he pivots to inspect the outfit he carried into the room that morning. The thrill of excitement it sends down his spine reminds him of the instant he’d first understood that clothes make the man. He was twelve years old at the time, watching the effect in the full-length mirror as the outfitter’s assistant adjusted the collar of his bluer. 

The suit is new, cut out of the Glen plaid that is Mycroft’s perpetual sartorial weakness – possibly because of the fabric’s nickname. His tailor suggested the extravagance of a lapelled waistcoat, which made Mycroft almost laugh out loud from sheer joy the first time he donned the finished product. It is, in Mycroft’s estimation, perfection itself. His shirt maker has provided him with a whole array of shirts to match the suit and sewn him a host of ties and pocket kerchiefs as well. For this evening Mycroft has chosen a luscious egg white Royal Oxford pinpoint while the tie and kerchief are an equally delectable apricot in a raw silk that begs to be touched. Though his mind urges him to swiftness he takes his time dressing, devoting precious seconds to perfecting the Windsor knot and arranging his kerchief to the right display of frivolity.

In front of the building Anthony is already standing at attention beside the car, holding open the door. Good boy. No doubt he spotted the light being turned off in Mycroft’s office.

“Where to, sir?” he asks once Mycroft has arranged himself on the backseat. 

“Just drop me off at the corner of Brook Street,” Mycroft answers. “You can take off the rest of the evening. I won’t be requiring the car until eight tomorrow morning.”

“All right, sir,” Anthony replies in a cheery tone. “My girlfriend will be happy to have me home in front of the telly for a change.”

“Indeed,” murmurs Mycroft. 

“Oh yes,” his chauffeur prattles on. “She loves these costume dramas, you see…”

“That so?” Mycroft enquires, raising an eyebrow encouragingly. By now he’s tuned out anything Anthony might wish to impart about his home life. Fortunately, after a lifetime spent listening to the incoherent rambling of dunces from every stratum of society his skills at dissembling and feigning an interest are of a class few have attained before him. He folds his fingers around the sturdy Malacca cane of his umbrella handle and lets his mind stray at leisure, humming at required intervals, and staring out the window to the cityscape thrumming around him and the people bustling to and fro. Through their vote for such an inept fool they were partly responsible for his present quandary, but there is no sense blaming them, he supposes, for they didn’t know what they were doing. The car rounds a corner where a couple is perching lost in a kiss, impervious to the disapproving glances of the elderly couple passing them by. As ever, when glimpsing such frank declaration of affection Mycroft feels his lips curl in affinity. If only, he thinks…but he knows better than to run up that hill.

***

At the restaurant Mycroft immediately catches sight of Sherlock’s mop of curls, standing out like a beacon amongst the elaborately styled hairdos that populate the room for its lack of artificiality. He is sitting with his back to the entrance and appears to be absorbed with something on their table, ignoring the glances darted his way.

Mycroft lingers at the entrance for a few seconds to luxuriate in observation. He loves the occasions where all eyes are fastened on his brother – desiring him – while Sherlock affects ignorance of the scrutiny bestowed on his person. The slant of his throat always gives him away. The angle displays too much self-awareness to be wholly natural. That deficiency, Mycroft surmises, is merely another reason to love his little brother so.

Walking up to their table Mycroft is dismayed to discover Sherlock has already managed to despoil a piece of tableware. Part of the foot of his red wine goblet is shattered and Sherlock is busy grinding the crystal to dust on the (linen, Mycroft notices with a wince) damask with the aid of his dessertspoon.

“Sir?” the _maître d'hôtel_ splutters, eying the damage and looking like he’d gladly murder Sherlock right then and there. However, this must be a recurring condition in Sherlock’s interaction with members of the human race for he seems oblivious to their host’s hatred of him. Instead, Sherlock graces the man with the falsest of dazzling smiles in his repertoire. Mycroft sighs inwardly, preparing himself for what will follow inevitably.

“Are you aware you’re actively endangering the lives of your customers by serving them wine in these glasses?” enquires Sherlock, tersely. “I barely even brushed my hand past this glass and look what happened.”

“Sir,” the _maître d'_ grits between his teeth.

“It’s a disgrace,” Sherlock continues, his voice mounting. “What say you, Mycroft?” he swings towards his brother. Mycroft glares at him and pivots to address the agitated restaurant employee. 

“Please be so kind as to bring my table partner a new glass,” he says. “Just add the damage to your property to the bill. And bring us a bottle of _Charles Heidsieck Vintage 2000_ , if you please?”

“Certainly, sir.” 

Mycroft quirks an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the _maître d'_ s speedy recovery. As if non-drunk customers wilfully abusing restaurant property are an everyday occurrence the man reaches for the remains of what has until recently been a perfectly serviceable wineglass, designed and fabricated to serve in the upper echelons of the restaurant business. Quick as a predator Sherlock’s hand shoots out to swathe the bowl protectively. 

“Leave it,” he says. “I want to examine it.” He is close to snarling. Here, in one of London’s most fashionable restaurants. In fact, the goings-on at their table have come to the observation of several people seated nearby and Mycroft can feel amusedly enquiring glances prickling his back. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, ignoring the equally amused enquiring glance Sherlock sends him.

“Perhaps you could wrap up the glass for my associate to take home,” he suggests, wriggling his eyebrows a bit more at the man.

Nodding in sympathy the _maître d'hôtel_ is eager to accept the suggestion.

“Of course, sir,” he says and bravely reaches for the glass again. This time, Sherlock doesn’t stop him, though he can’t refrain from snapping “Better be careful”, almost causing the poor man to crush the goblet between his fingers.

Having managed to gain his prize the _maître d'_ claps his heels together in Teutonic fashion, bows, and marches off to vent his frustration at the first hapless minion who’ll happen to cross his path. Mycroft lets his gaze trail after his departing figure before shifting it to his brother.

“Must you?” he asks in his most tired tone. “Please,” he adds, when Sherlock pretends not to understand what Mycroft is going on about.

“You’re late,” is his brother’s extraneous reply. Mycroft shrugs, seats himself and starts a careful arranging of his napkin on his lap. “The Prime Minister found himself in need of some therapeutic stimulation. Naturally he turned to me.”

“Who?” queries Sherlock, only to have his expression turn sour and scoff. “Why would you want to waste time on him? You’re always complaining the man is a moron.”

“That was the last one,” Mycroft corrects. “This one is worse.”

“Exactly,” triumphs Sherlock, effectively blocking further assessment of his behaviour. His fingers drum on the tablecloth whilst he contemplates Mycroft, as if calculating what his brother’s reaction to the next outrage will be. Suddenly his face softens. 

“How do you like my suit?” he forwards. The question hovers in the air for a split-second before he adds, down his nose. “Yours is quite fine.”

This, for Sherlock, is the highest kind of compliment to pay Mycroft. The warm glow his comment incites in Mycroft’s chest is to some extent mortifying – the mightiest man of the Realm vying for flannel, from his little brother to boot – but for once Mycroft doesn’t care, as it is clear the remark carries no strings. 

The arrival of their champagne prevents Mycroft from returning the courtesy. They wait in silence as the waiter goes through the ritual of uncorking and pouring the wine without spilling a drop of the precious liquid. 

Sherlock has long since learned better than to recommence a discussion on the choice of champagne for an aperitif. Both the Belgians and the French might have despicable morals, but they know about food and Mycroft appreciates their tradition of starting a fine meal with champagne. Of course he is aware of the wine’s romantic associations, and thus he’s admitted his brother’s qualms might be justified. How Sherlock gloated, jeering at Mycroft that his preference for the liquid must surely give away their secret, which Mycroft insisted on so carefully guarding, much to Sherlock’s exasperation. 

In the end Mycroft had to cut him short with the argument a great man cultivated utility, even if he hadn’t invented the tradition himself. “If you’d actually paid attention in history class we wouldn’t need to discuss this,” he’d said. “Now shut up and drink your champagne.”

Needless to say, Sherlock has developed quite a taste for having the effervescent bubbles explode against his palate. Once the waiter has made himself scarce they both take the stem of their glass between thumb and forefinger and, inclining their heads at each other, lift their glasses to their lips.

“So what was all the hullaballoo about?” prods Mycroft, after they’ve both expressed their admiration of the liquid, which, as always, doesn’t fall short of its reputation.

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face takes on an aspect of delight and he launches into an explanation of the glass’s shine, which had drawn his attention and how… As during the Prime Minister’s lament and Anthony’s praise of his girlfriend Mycroft relegates the flow of information to a remote part of his mind, somewhere in the environs of the garden shed. He picks up the phrases that might be relevant to some of the more nasty aspects of his job and puts them into temporary storage, for Sherlock is his most reliable source on quaint scientific developments. Mostly, though, he concentrates on appreciating the mobile movement of Sherlock’s mouth and the accompanying ballet his pale hands are performing against the background of the black suit and electric blue shirt he is wearing.

_How lucky I am_ , Mycroft muses and part of him cringes, for to permit such ideas means he considers himself unworthy of his brother’s affection. That line of reasoning, he reminds his ego, is patently ridiculous and a disparagement of both Mycroft and, perhaps even more importantly, of Sherlock. 

By now his brother is sketching some molecule in his notebook to elucidate the point he is making. Mycroft mutters something undefinable under his breath and uses the intermission to let his eyes roam the restaurant. As expected his little brother’s form is drawing lots of attention. The glances of both women and men keep dashing away from their table partners to land on Sherlock’s shoulders, his hands, his profile and – most frequently – his mouth.

And rightly so, thinks Mycroft, suppressing the impulse to glare at each and every one of them. To divert his thoughts he gestures for a waiter to bring them their menus.

“You see?” Sherlock ends his exposition a bit breathlessly at that particular moment, shoving his notebook under Mycroft’s nose. Mycroft regards the page and nods, for he does see all too clearly and the implications of what Sherlock has just told him could be devastating; though there is of course no reason for his brother to worry his extremely pretty head about it.

“I take it you’ll be spending your day at Bart’s tomorrow,” Mycroft suggests in an off-hand manner, sipping some more of his champagne.

“Oh yes,” chuckles Sherlock, tucking the notebook back into his pocket. “I would be there now if I didn’t have other, more pressing, business to attend to.”

“I agree that business takes precedence,” Mycroft affably assents, nodding his thanks to the waiter handing them their menus. “Though I would be obliged if you’d inform me of your findings. Drop them at my office tomorrow evening, would you?”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock pretends to be scandalised. Mycroft fixes him with a disapproving look. “Just do it,” he warns. “You might have hit upon something of huge import, Sherlock.”

“Of course I have.” Sherlock puffs up his shoulders. “Come and get it yourself if you want it.”

Endeavouring to at least appear to remain unaffected Mycroft says, “Please try and act like a grown-up for a change.” When Sherlock merely shrugs, defiance oozing from the set of his eyes, Mycroft decides to change tack. 

“Of course you’re brilliant,” he smoothly concedes, preparing the lay of the land for his offensive. A susceptibility to flattery is an even weaker point for Sherlock than it is for Mycroft. Probably because he receives the pleasure far less often than Mycroft does. In that respect the appearance of John Watson in Sherlock’s life is something of deterioration in the greater scheme of things.

“And you – of course – will drop off your findings tomorrow at my office. In person – of course. And we will – of course – not discuss this matter any longer.” Mycroft switches to his most authoritative tone, the one that, thanks to the Paris debacle and its aftermath, he’s discovered provides the swiftest means to calling Sherlock to heel, whenever he threatens to go against the tide of his elder brother’s wishes. He never uses it in the bedroom, nor in a close conference with others, for he doesn’t like the unhappy twist it brings to Sherlock’s mouth. But it is one of the few weapons in his arsenal, and if Sherlock needs to hear the crack of the whip, Mycroft is happy to oblige.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t give in gracefully but withdraws behind his menu to brood in magnificent resentment.

“Thank you,” Mycroft tells him pointedly. This causes Sherlock’s right eyebrow to twitch slightly. The impassivity of the rest of his face is nothing if not impressive. As is the sharp snap of paper as he turns a page of his menu.

There isn’t a huge array of dishes to choose from, a feature that invariably finds favour with Mycroft, for it implies the chef knows the ropes and may be held accountable for his decisions. A few weeks ago he had lunch at this same restaurant. The particulars of his table partners and their concerns have long since been deleted as being a waste of space in his mind palace. Mycroft would have regretted the actual waste of time as well if he hadn’t enjoyed such an exceptional meal. Blocking his ears to the inconsequential drone of the man seated on his left he’d considered the place might do very well for the occasion of their fifteenth anniversary. And now they are actually here.

“Stop sulking,” he addresses the menu across the table from him.. “It’s a far too attractive look on you. People are looking.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curl upwards. “The trout for starters, I think,” he says with a pensive air, “and the lamb after. Although, parsnips…” His voice tapers off as he sinks back to a contemplation of the menu. 

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat. _We’re both being absurd_ , he thinks and pretends a renewed scrutiny of his menu.

“Parsnips,” he repeats.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s gaze searches his over the edge of their menus.

The evening is already proving to be an unremitting success.

And they haven’t even properly begun yet.


End file.
